Rocky Road to Dublin
by pbk
Summary: movieverse: Watson feels sorry for himself. Holmes is an emotional cripple. Mary is a tool. Implied H/W slash, nothing explicit.


_So, I was watching 'The Case of the Silk Stocking' and got a wild hair to try my hand at some H/W fanfiction. I decided, however, to go for the '09 moviedom on this one. I really like Rupert Everett's Holmes in SS, though. Might have to revisit that… Oh, and also, I speak American English, and since this is just a little one shot I'm popping off just to scratch an itch, I'm going to write it in American English, too. Just a word of warning to the Puritans, lest they desire to burn me at the stake… I also make direct references to scenes from the movie. If you haven't seen it, those references probably won't make sense._

**The Rocky Road to Dublin**

_**(Watson's POV)**_

I leaned back against the seat of the hansom and let out a low sigh. I looked over at Mary and tried to catch her eye, but she looked on stubbornly ahead, her eyes focused and unseeing. I opened my mouth, and then closed it again, not knowing what to say.

"You don't have to apologize for him, John."

She does look at me know. The corner of her mouth is upturned, a wistful half-smile.

_The angry flick of her wrist as her wine glass empties in his face. The shaking of her hands as she grabs the arms of her chair, pushing it back forcefully. The conveyance in her eyes when they clash against mine as I sit there, silently._

No, I don't have to apologize for him. But I know she wants me to.

_Well done, old boy._

Sarcasm and a small, small grain of truth. She asked for it.

"_Take Watson-" "I intend to."_

That flash, that split second of pain that flitted across his face and shattered his false bravado. For just one second, he was totally exposed, naked.

Human.

I almost envied her that power she possessed. I knew, in that worst, most spiteful, most honest part of myself, that I wanted him to hurt. After all these years, all the hedging, all the vague references, all the slick evasion of promises and declarations, all the pain I felt in the wake of his cool confidence, it was turning around a bit. It was his turn to have a taste.

Of course, knowing this inherently and admitting it to myself are two different things. I am not by nature an evil man, and I cannot fathom that I would marry someone purely out of spite.

I look up again, pulling Mary's eyes to mine. No, I don't have to apologize for Holmes.

But I do have to apologize for myself.

* * *

_Technically, I wasn't lying._

Sad, that I must make those sorts of distinctions. What was it I was saying about admitting things to myself?

The ride home had calmed her down. We sat, and we drank tea, and I regaled her with stories of some of our wilder antics. She laughed in all the right places, and I tried not to use Holmes' name too gratuitously.

It was all perfectly amiable.

Until I looked elaborately at my watch, then regretfully at her face, and intoned a twinge of melancholy in my voice as I spoke of my early rounds in the morning. I had to stop myself from wincing as she brushed her hand across my forehead, beckoning me to rest well, and then kissing me sweetly goodbye.

I could feel her smile melt off her face the moment my hand touched the doorknob. I don't know who I thought I was fooling, but it wasn't she.

_Technically, I wasn't lying._ I chuckled ironically as I hailed a cab with my cane. I _do_ have early rounds in the morning, but I'm not going back to Baker St. to rest.

I'm not going back to Baker St. at all.

_I was halfway through the crowded dining hall when my slow walk came to a stop. I looked back over my shoulder. There Holmes sat, his dinner jacket soiled, red wine dripping from his face and hair. The waiters were placing food before him with averted eyes, but their eyes weren't what arrested me. It was his. At moments such as these, I cannot tell if he is totally unconcerned or totally unaware. Is he really that aloof, or is it a pretense, an escape? At this moment, I think it is both._

_Part of me wants to turn back, to return to the table, to be with him. But Mary is already outside, already in a cab, already waiting for me. Old habits passed on, becoming new._

_Waiting._

No, at the moment, there is nothing for me at 221B. But I know where to find what I'm looking for. I am not the only creature of habit. He is not the only one with eyes.

* * *

I have to stop myself in my tracks and plan an alternate route, bypassing the betting table. It would be difficult enough for me to leave without Holmes ever knowing I was here. Placing a bet would only draw attention to my presence.

I intend only to look from afar.

My instinct tells me to stand in the back, but I know from past experience that rather than being an effective hiding place, the slightly higher stands in the back only make one more visible. I squeeze through, then, to the middle, and lose myself in the crowd. Holmes is already at it, and has been for a while. His hair is soaked through, and his body glistens with sweat. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to conjure up, then block out, other images of more private instances when I've seen his body in a similar state. Instances due to my own prowess, rather than the slow fists of the lumbering dullard currently occupying him. Unlike many other contenders in this facility, Holmes is not fighting to prove something. Or rather, not to prove anything to anyone else. I think he does it to remind himself that none of us, including Holmes, are that far separated from the lowest common denominator. I can tell that so far he is only toying with his opponent, drawing him out. He has yet to fight in earnest, and rarely does so in this arena, for he usually does just enough to win, and never wastes his best on an unworthy adversary. So far, this fight is no different than any other.

But then, something catches his eye. I can see him looking about wildly and I shrink back into the crowd, ducking down a bit. I needn't have worried; it is not me he is looking for. I wonder briefly what it is that he seeks, until a giant fist clocks him from behind and sends him spinning to the ground. I gasp audibly, pushing forward, ignoring the looks from those I shove around me. And then I see her, the woman of whom I cannot help but be jealous, I cannot help but despise, even though, in a way, I can't help but feel I owe her some small gratitude for maneuvering circumstances that eventually played out in my favor.

_I gritted my teeth, my jaw clenched painfully, as I watched Holmes carefully select a jacket (he happened to choose my favorite) and meticulously tie his cravat. He's going to see her. Again. I have spent many a long hour contemplating why this conniving vixen offends me so. It is not for the obvious reason that she is playing Holmes as skillfully as he plays his violin, and that he is so uncharacteristically blind to the fact. If anything, I should derive pleasure from the fact that he's being knocked down a few pegs. _

_I had never thought of Sherlock Holmes as a sexual being. Certainly, there were times that his movements were wrought with sensuality, times when his very presence shone with an allure that called like a siren song. But never had he betrayed any hint of lust beyond the attraction of a mystery to be solved, the thrill of the chase. Never had he shown any regard for sentimentality. And he certainly had never intimated that he was anything other than immune to the desires of the flesh. I have had my fair share of liaisons, matters of the most physical nature that Holmes had always referred to with detached amusement. So, why now? Why this woman? And, of course, the real question. The one keeping me awake at night. The one over which my jaw is clenching right now._

_Why not me?_

_When finally the game had been played, and Holmes knew himself for the dupe he had been, I could not offer him comfort. Instead, I berated him. I attacked him from every angle, wounding his ego through his intellect, regaling him with endless examples of his foolishness. The ensuing row grew and grew, my voice getting louder, his voice getting icier, personal space becoming more and more disregarded. Then something clicked inside me, and I realized I was revealing everything. How I had been faithful and unfailing and totally devoted, taking nothing from him but the crumbs left on his table, and how she had treated him as a doormat, and he had given her everything. I caught myself with a hitch, and fell silent. I was aware that we were only inches apart. I was aware that his body was shuddering with each heaving breath._

_Then I was aware of his lips on mine. It was a long while after that before I was aware of anything else._

Irene Adler has impeccable timing. I had to give the woman that much, at least. Holmes is ripe for the picking. I looked back down at the fight and saw with no small amazement that he was conceding. But of course he was, why should I be amazed? He wanted to go after her.

_He didn't go after me._

I didn't have to see for myself to tell anyone what happened after the spittle hit the back of Holmes' head. In his frame of mind, I knew what would happen. But I watched anyway, because I love to see a master at work. The dispatch was quick, and it was vicious, and it left everyone stunned.

Everyone but me.

I knew I had to hurry, then. He would go home and indulge himself in vices, if not of the flesh, then at least of the body. I had to be home before him, and in bed, or he would know. He would be able to smell this place on me, see it on my clothes, and hear it in the echo of my footsteps. No, I had to be there first, safely ensconced in my room, away from his prying eyes. If I faced him tonight then I would lose all my resolve. I would give in, and I promised myself, and him, that I never would again. I slipped out the back, knowing he would go out the front. I hailed a cab and cowered inside it, knowing he would walk home in plain sight.

_We lay there, my head on his chest, his hand tracing the scar across my shoulder and down my arm. His heartbeat sounded almost languid, but mine skipped in trepidation. I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, and thought of all the times he never said 'I love you'. Finally, I lifted myself off of him, bracing on my elbow, and met his inquiring eyes, watching them darken as I spoke._

"_Holmes, I'm going to ask for Mary's hand."_

_He looked at me for a moment, then a sarcastic grin tugged at the corners of his lips. "And what, my dear Watson, do you intend to do with it?"_

_I shook slightly, and fought the urge to close my eyes. "I'm going to marry her, Sherlock." The sickening grin froze on his face, and the temperature of his voice dropped several degrees. "Do you think you can ever possibly love her as you love me?"_

"_No," I shake my head sadly, "but she can love me as much as I love you. I thought it would be nice, for a change."_

I lean back against the seat of the hansom and let out a low sigh.

It's almost over.


End file.
